


we’re only liars, but we’re the best

by lesprita



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Canon Divergence - Black Panther (2018), Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 19:52:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16070129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesprita/pseuds/lesprita
Summary: In T'Challa's opinion, kissing to keep your cover has its perks.





	we’re only liars, but we’re the best

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-Civil War, au where Prince T’Challa is a War Dog.

Technically, all the VIP rooms are closed (the entire floor is closed, really), but Nakia knows the clubs’ head security and the few employees that work here don’t even spare them a glance. There’s too much to do for the Friday night opening and probably wouldn’t notice that the barista is leading a complete stranger up the ‘VIP only’ stairs. The hallway cameras were hacked two hours ago and will show the same feed on loop for fifteen minutes. It’s more than enough time to bug the target’s exclusive guest rooms. All that’s left is to prepare for the actual operation.

“We should test the sound bites while we set up,” T’Challa says into the eerie silence of the wide room. The cleaning staff were just here: he smells carpet powder and chemicals. There’s new coasters on each of the low tables and, as far as he can tell from the low lighting in the room, no blemish on the leather seats. Nice and ready for tomorrow’s venue. He closes and locks the door. “Though I don’t see how my being here is less suspicious than you going alone.”

Nakia heads for the pristine tables, sitting on the closest seat to take out the thumb-sized bugs from her faux-make-up pouch. She came in her barista uniform––a black shirt sporting the clubs’ logo and form fitting jeans. “Because the target is wealthy and paranoid. And an employee caught alone in his personal floor is going to be too tough to talk my way out of.” 

“You’re going to charm your way out of trouble this time?” T’Challa feigns surprise.

Nakia rolls her eyes. “Yes, I will. Just because Akili likes to complain about my messes, doesn’t mean I’m incapable of charisma.”

She balances the flashlight between her lips, bending over to see underneath the table and the conversation dies. T’Challa busies himself on the other side of the room placing EMPs in the crevices of the cushions. It will only take two of the bugs Nakia is planting to encompass the sound of the entire room, but the idea is listen in when the target is loose-tongued from the alcohol. The EMPs are a security measure in case the target is paranoid enough to check for listening devices.

He flips on the switch for a lava lamp and snorts at the bright orange, shapeless colors. “Who still has lava lamps?”

Nakia sits up, satisfied with her work, and pulls the flashlight away from her lips. “Probably the same person who likes cheetah skins,” she speculates. She angles her light at the black-and-yellow prints T’Challa somehow missed. He shakes his head in disbelief.

“I briefed you about our dear target, Amobi,” Nakia reminds him, hinting a smile. “Very flashy.”

T’Challa watches her as she moves on to the next table. It occurs to him this is the first time in a while they’ve worked on an assignment together, however temporary. When it’s over, he’s flying to his next assignment, probably something safer than shadowing a potential human trafficker. Then it will be back to long-distance chatting, which isn’t all bad. Most of the time. When they’re in the same time zone.

“When are you going home?” T’Challa asks, going for casual.

Nakia initiates her kimoyo bead, a blue screen lighting her cheeks. “Don’t remember,” she replies, absently. “Sometime in November?”

That’s two months away. He’ll spend a week of November in Niganda before he flies home.

“I see.” He adjusts the light on his flashlight, glancing at the interior window that reveals the dance floor below. This room has a view of the bar and the stage, where technicians are diligently working on sound and light equipment. Better not to draw unnecessary attention. He crosses the threshold, sitting on the seat beside Nakia and careful as to not jostle the leather sofa.

“Do you have plans?” T’Challa asks, loading up the sound bites with his kimoyo bead.

Nakia glances at him funny. “Well, Amobi opens the VIP rooms late, but I’ll be downstairs––”

“No, I meant when you go home.”

“Oh.” She frowns. “I don’t.”

“We should do something while we’re there,” T’Challa suggests. “Something productive until we get reassigned.”

Nakia is quiet for a moment, furrowing her brow as she adjusts her earpiece. “Wait. Dial it down a bit.”

He obeys with a motion of his finger, gauging her reaction.

“There.” She relaxes the focused tension from her face. “Do you mean a date?”

T’Challa laughs, thankful for the low lighting masking his embarrassment. “Well––”

It’s at this moment when they hear the jingle of keys outside the door accompanied by a baritone voice. Too late to hide. T’Challa shoots up and turns to Nakia, his mind racing because they should have had more time and if her cover is _blown_ ––

He turns to her and she takes his face with her hands, pulling him back into an air-sucking kiss. Instinctively, he props a hand and a knee on the seat so he doesn’t fall on her and wraps his free arm around her, tasting the mint in her breath and her tongue sliding against his teeth. In any other circumstances, their bodies pressed so close together would be an invitation, but all T’Challa can do is swallow his surprise and his questions as the door opens. 

Nakia breaks the kiss, as scandalized as she should be when the light of the flashlight is on their faces. “Oh my god!”

T’Challa stands, straightening his shirt, clearing his throat as the security guard squares his shoulders. He steps in front of Nakia, playing the role of the protective boyfriend while Nakia deftly gathers their gear.

“This area is closed,” the security guard says flatly. Not one of Nakia’s people then.

“Is it?” T’Challa asks, aghast. “I thought this was the special guest room.”

“It is. What are _you_ doing here?”

“I’m VIP.” T’Challa rubs the back of his neck. He’s not dressed for the part and hasn’t made the time to shave his facial hair, so he doesn’t blame the security guard for his derisive snort.

Nakia stands at T’Challa’s side, lacing her fingers with his and shares his sheepish smile. “I’m so sorry this is my fault, I wanted to be somewhere private and––”

As she explains, he notices her voice has a higher note, leaning her weight on one foot, and making herself smaller. The security guard relaxes a hand away from his firearm. T’Challa slackens his pose, remembering that this is her assignment. To let her handle this.

“Alright, enough,” the security guard says, flicking on the main light switch and turning off his flashlight, forcing their eyes to adjust to the bright light. “You’re both coming with me.”

“David, right?” Nakia says quickly, flitting a quick glance at his name tag. “This was a bad judgement on my part. I know. But if you’d just contact Kobe, he’ll understand.”

David narrows his eyes. “I don’t have time for this…”

“Please. Tell him, it’s Njeri.”

Then her smile is no longer demure, it’s cajoling, and he sees it pickaxing at David’s guard. It’s like watching a master at work, the way she can disarm someone’s suspicions with just the smallest gestures. A curve of her smile. The silvery lilt of her voice. A brush of her fingers. T’Challa certainly has his moments of charisma, sure, but it’s different with Nakia. She can read the room and spin circles around until no one can tell what’s up or down.

She squeezes T’Challa’s hand. “Please, David.”

David’s eyes shift between Nakia and T’Challa, the area around his irises yellow. He exhales through his nose. “Wait, here.”

He steps out into the hall, face turned away, they hear the entire radio conversation in hushed Hausa. It’s unfortunate for David that they can both understand every word, including Kobe’s generous bribe to keep him quiet. T’Challa has a feeling it won’t take much to persuade him.

Nakia nudges his attention. Her smile is giddy now and he really doesn’t have to wonder how she gets herself into trouble with all her wit and charisma. Not with a smile like that. “Were you worried?” she whispers.

“Should I have been?”

“Maybe a little.”

T’Challa returns the hold of her grip. His own smile is genuine. “I’m going to need emotional compensation for all this.”

David steps back into the room, disgruntled and more than a little annoyed. “I want you both out. Now.”

Without a second thought, T’Challa follows Nakia right out of the room, nodding courteously at David as they pass by him. They quicken their pace at the end of the hall, and Nakia says, slyly, “Would a date make up for the emotional damage I caused?”

“Not at all,” T’Challa scoffs. He entwines his hand with hers. “But it’s a start.”


End file.
